Best Of :: Sports & Recreation
Recently, in a Playboy interview, Bob Costas railed on sports-talk radio: "With some notable exceptions," Costas was quoted as saying, "sports talk radio is heat over light. It's all about attitude taking the place of informed opinion. It's so moronic. Hey, sports isn't brain surgery, but neither should it be brain-dead." Now, there is no doubt that Costas is one of the most articulate, passionate, respected men in sports. But allow us to ask this question in response to his statements: Why not? No offense to the many men and women who earn a living pontificating on the relative merits of the 1-2-2 trap, but sports is the perfect subject on which to favor attitude over anything else. If you want information, turn to newsprint, where it is housed. If you want pretty talking people with mellifluous voices, turn on your television. If you want folks throwing out what The Ticket calls hot sports opinions, go to radio, where you can join the braying if you like. There's nothing wrong with radio being an outlet for folks who prefer to keep sports arguments on a barroom level: A player doesn't struggle, he blows. A coach isn't poor at adapting, he's a friggin' idiot. And the reason The Ticket has become such a success is that its hosts, by and large, understand that their job is to fire off opinions--silly, right on, everything in between. It may seem a cop-out not to choose one show here--OK, it is a cop-out--but each show does its job perfectly. In the mornings, George Dunham and Craig Miller team with Gordon Keith to give a well-rounded, familiar, mostly light-hearted presentation. The Hardline--Mike Rhyner and Greg Williams--is the steak dinner to D&M's grand-slam breakfast: a forum for folks driving home to vent and hear the venting of an irascible crank (Rhyner) and a straight-shooting small-towner made big-time. (A duo that would, rightly, point out the number of clichs in that last sentence.) They're the best at what they do, because they understand that what they do ain't brain surgery. And they're damn proud of that fact.
Like other great moments in recent Dallas sports history, the best one of the year was a frozen one: Darryl Sydor, during Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals, crawling across the ice to defend his goal after he'd broken his ankle. ESPN analysts shouted in disbelief as Sydor, in obvious and tremendous pain, pulled himself across the ice with his arms, dragging his now-bum leg behind, and began throwing his hands in the air trying to deflect the puck as eventual champs New Jersey tried to score. It personified what makes hockey, and the Dallas Stars, so enthralling. Hockey at its best is a game that is at once more violent than football and more graceful than basketball, a game with an honor code that demands that hockey players not only play hurt, but play in blinding pain. Sydor's exhibition of--pick your clich--heart, determination, guts, whatever you want to call it-- almost made losing the Stanley Cup acceptable, because fans knew that moment reflected the Stars' effort, and the commitment fans ask of their sports stars.
We were rookies when we walked in, pros when we rolled out--or so it felt, with our nifty Specialized Expedition between our legs, our Bell helmet on our head, and our stylin' Fat Tire jersey over our shoulders. The last time we were on a bike was in 1982, back when Mom and Dad brought home that new Schwinn that long ago was reduced to bent, bruised metal after a nasty head-on with a car one night--enough to turn anyone away from biking for at least a little while. But two months after walking into the Richardson Bike Mart, looking for the instrument that was to be our salvation from an expanding waistline and encroaching lethargy, the place has become our home-away-from. The first day we walked in (underneath the framed Lance Armstrong jersey that hangs over the door), our salesman introduced himself (Sean Michael Dargan, whaddup?) and proceeded to introduce us to the right bike for the right build. Sean then explained that the bike had a lifetime guarantee and that the Bike Mart's expert staff would service it regularly, for a nominal (if not nonexistent) fee. But that wasn't the best part of the shopping adventure: That came when it was time to buy the accoutrements--the jersey and padded shorts, the gloves and helmet, the water bottle and bracket, the whole shebang that turns exercise into hobby into lifestyle. See, we like to bike--from nothing to 15 miles in two weeks, not bad if we do say so our own danged selves--but we like to look good while doing it, because that is, after all, the whole point. Uh, isn't it?
In this, the season that marks the beginning of the end for Your Heroes, there is only one human-interest tale worth telling concerning Dallas Cowboys players. Tim Seder, the 5-foot-9, 180-pound kicker who went to tiny Ashland University, was teaching at Lucas High School in Ohio when he found out he had a long-shot chance to make the team. He came to his first workout wearing a pair of indoor soccer shoes, complete with holes, that he'd borrowed from a student. He then went out and won the job, beating out dozens of other, seemingly more big-name kickers. Since the season's start, he has been the lone bright spot on a team that can no longer sniff mediocrity. Seder almost makes it worth going to home games, if only to root for him. Almost.
Yes, there's a double standard that goes on with sports fans in Dallas. If Michael Irvin gets caught with a roach, we will decry him as a moral degenerate. But if Stars goalie Eddie Belfour gets arrested because he was drunk as a monkey, well, that's just a man who lives a rock-and-roll lifestyle, brutha! Why? We'll let you draw your own conclusions. A black man caught with drug paraphernalia? Run him outta town! A white dude gets too loaded on a legal drug? Party on! At least, that's the way talk-show hosts and fans reacted to each episode. Our take: Michael Irvin was not only one of our favorite all-time Cowboys on the field, but he's also a guy we'd like to get to know off the field. Two reasons. One, crazed egomaniacs don't bother us (come to one of our editorial meetings sometime), and two, because, dude, we're dry right now, and we need a man with connections. After putting together a 400-plus page Best Of Dallas issue, one that honors a rich 20-year tradition, smokin' a bowl sounds so suh-weet right now...
We keep waiting for Hansen's act to wear thin on us. It obviously has on his humorless co-workers, who--save for the refreshingly human Gloria Campos--stare at Dale in confusion after he finishes a joke-laden sportscast. (Apparently a focus group hasn't yet told them whether they're supposed to laugh.) But we still love to watch Hansen, who is the most entertaining personality on local television. (An aside: Much as we like Babe Laufenberg, we miss Hansen in the radio booth during Cowboys games...but we digress.) This was never so apparent as when, after every moron in town was calling for Troy Aikman's concussed head, Hansen spent his newscast sarcastically mocking that notion, showing highlights of Aikman-like drop-back passer Kurt Warner. It was two-plus minutes of ranting--far more entertaining and, hell, more enlightening--than another recounting of the day's scores. Hansen is aware that people now get their scores on ESPN and the Internet; what he can offer is smart, snide commentary, often more valuable than an hour's worth of X-and-O jock talk.